


Shards

by KillerKueen



Series: Stitches [2]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Chubby Belle, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 06:03:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9165313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KillerKueen/pseuds/KillerKueen
Summary: Mr Gold took great pride in his work, and in his shop. He could hardly be blamed for his distraction by the lovely Miss French.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I debated how to go about this, and I decided to copy/paste some of the dialogue. So, sorry if it seems kind of redundant in parts. I hope you still enjoy!
> 
> Also, I spent an hour googling the history/value of old mirrors and didn’t come up with anything concrete, so all official facts are made up. I apologize for my poor google skills.

****She came for his books. Presumably.

Mr. Gold was quite proud of his collection of first editions. He knew that no one in town cared nearly enough about the written word to even give a second glance to his extensive offering, yet he still displayed them proudly and made sure that their spines were straight on the shelves.

He remembered the first day Miss French stepped into his pawn shop. She had entered with no hesitation: her head was held high, her eyes were bright and wondering and she _knew_ what she was after.

...Or at least that was how he always pictured it. In reality, he had been going through his budget for the monthly upkeep of his empty properties. He remembered the spark of annoyance he felt at the cheerful jingle of the bell when the door opened.

It was no match for the absolute jolt that struck him when he stepped out from behind the curtain and laid his eyes on her for the first time.

He had known Storybrooke had a new librarian, come all the way from Australia to be with her father (rumors of his poor health were quiet out of respect, but persisted all the same as they were wont to do in a small town). And indeed, Gold could immediately see the family traits, but the similarity in build they shared was where those traits ended.

Simply put, to call Miss French lovely was to do her a disservice. Her eyes were a striking blue that seemed to glow with a familiar light in her heart shaped face, and the tumble of brown curls that went past her shoulders and hung near her rounded br—

Gold cut that thought off straight away. He may be cruel, may take great enjoyment in tearing down the citizens of Storybrooke and taking them for everything they had, but he was not a pervert, he didn’t prey on women half his age, and he certainly wasn’t going to start then.

There were beautiful women in town, and he managed to talk civilly with them everyday without being distracted. He could just as easily talk with this one.

“Miss French, I presume,” he said, proud of his level (and perhaps even bored) tone of voice, even if his tongue felt glued to the roof of his mouth.

She had been previously studying the mobile of glass unicorns he kept by the door, where it served its purpose of distracting those who came in.

(He’d never admit it, but he quite liked how the figurines caught the sunlight that shone through his shop windows, and the result of sunspots that danced across his wooden floors.)

Miss French looked up in surprise. “You say that as if you were expecting me, uhm, Mr. Gold,” she said.

Perhaps it was the lack of a proper introduction that made her look so unsteady. Well, he _did_ have a reputation for knowing everything around town, so introductions tended to be redundant.

“Most everyone makes their way here eventually,” he said, settling behind his long case and tapping the glass lightly with his fingers.

She nodded as she smoothed her blouse over her stomach. He could see her fingernails were painted a light purple that went nicely with the yellow flowers on her skirt. “Yes, of course.”

Gold had no illusions about what the town said about him—no doubt she had been warned to stay as far away from him as possible. The fact that she was here now made him think that Maurice’s health was in a much poorer condition than the gossips knew.

“You have a lovely shop,” she said, her eyes darting from his face to the shelves around her. She sounded sincere.

He nodded his thanks. “Is there something I can help you with, Miss French?”

He wondered what it was she was going to ask for. A way to pay for the medical bills that would soon accumulate? That would be the most direct option. After all, privatized health care was expensive, and he doubted Maurice had the foresight to take out any insurance. Or perhaps she was there to ask for a transfer of Maurice’s business loan, if not to inquire for a way to forgive it outright. Lifting that burden would no doubt decrease a large amount of stress for both of them.

He watched as Miss French swayed. She hadn’t stepped any closer inside the shop, any closer towards him. Her eyes were still roving over all the trinkets and baubles that he kept on his shelves. She made an excited sort of noise when her eyes landed on something in the corner.

“If I need something, I’ll holler,” she promised, before she seemed to float over to where he kept his prized collection of books. Gold could hardly be surprised at her choice, what with her being a librarian.

It still didn’t stop the sudden pride he felt that someone had finally noticed his first editions and other smattering of rare books and materials. It was nice, someone finally appreciating what he had.

His fingers continued to lightly tap on the counter. Now the annoyance was back, and it warred with his pride, and there was still that jolt of... _feeling_ that he had to deal with.

When it became clear that she wasn’t going to ask for something immediately, Gold decided he might as well wait her out. He could go to the back and finish his budget, but she probably just needed to gather her courage, and he didn’t want to miss her when she did.

He could see it so clearly: she’d finally decide she was ready to strike her deal, she’d turn to the counter only to see him gone, and then she’d lose her nerve and leave.

He couldn’t have that. It was poor business.

Deciding he would finish the budget later, Gold instead opened the case to retrieve some jewelry that needed polishing.

Honestly, he could admit it was a silly pretense after the third already gleaming bracelet had been set back in the display. His eyes kept drifting over to Miss French, where she so reverently pulled each book from the shelf and held them in her hands as if absorbing the words from within the pages.

And her face. She either bit her lip in excitement, or her eyes went wide in surprise as she flit to and from each new discovery, and _oh_ , that’s where he’d seen the light in her eyes before—in the sunspots across his floor, the light pooling and illuminating.

Yes, to call Miss French simply lovely was indeed an insult to her utter perfection.

And he was in trouble. They had hardly had a proper introduction: it was entirely inappropriate to get all cow-eyed at the poor woman. He should return to his back room, back to his numbers and unoccupied properties and whatever else he needed to finish before he closed for the day.

Mr. Gold stayed where he was as if roots had sprouted from the soles of his shoes.

There was hardly any harm in watching, right? He hoped so, as he was incapable of tearing himself away.

The quiet was broken (was it minutes or hours later? It could have been days for all Gold was concerned) by the merry ringing of her cell phone.

Miss French looked at the screen, only to gasp, no doubt at the amount of time spent in the dark shadowed corner of the pawn shop.

She silenced the call, before turning and walking back towards the door.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Gold. I didn’t mean to take up so much of your time,” she said. “Thank you very much for your books,” and she smiled at him (eyes bright like the sun spots across the floor).

Before he could form more than “That’s quite alright, Miss French,” she was out the door, and all he was left with was the faint smell of her perfume and the faded ringing of his bell.

* * *

 

Much to his delight, Miss French returned eight days later (not that he was counting). She again paused by the door when Gold emerged from the back; only after exchanging pleasantries did she flutter over to his books again. Gold had been lacquering a jewelry box when he heard the bell, and figured he could leave the top coat to dry while he went over his ledger of items sold in the front.

If Gold thought she was there to make her deal, he was mistaken, as she left in the same manner as she did before: with a heartfelt _thank you_ and an adorably flustered smile.

And so began Miss French’s visits. They were always random, which meant Gold couldn’t know when to expect her. It was almost a shame—he could better prepare himself for when she arrived if she had kept to a schedule—but he couldn’t deny that anticipation when he pushed the curtain aside, the jolt that always struck him when he laid his eyes on her. He adored her skirts that showed off her long legs, and he couldn’t help but imagine the bliss it would be to be between them, to have them wrapped around his waist, to sink into her softness.

As beautiful as Miss French was, soon Gold felt a very different kind of impulse; he wanted to talk with her. He wanted to know just what exactly it was that drew her to his books week after week, and he wanted to know what she saw in their pages.

So many times, he’d look up, conversation heavy on his tongue, but he’d see the look of delight on her face (her face that was always turned away from him) and decide that he just couldn’t interrupt her. Maybe next time, he’d tell himself. Always next time.

He had assumed today would be like every other; Miss French entered his shop and they each said their customary greeting, and then she was in front of his shelves, pouring over his books.

Or, at least that was the direction she had been heading.

Gold had long since learned it was best to always keep some work up front so he had an excuse to linger while Miss French was in his shop, or at least have something to look at so he wasn’t just staring at her (It was a futile effort, as his eyes were always drawn to where she was).

As such, he had his head down, staring blankly at the row of rings in the case before him, when he heard something fall to the floor and shatter.

Miss French had her hands up and her face was white. When she caught his eye, she seemed to pale even further.

“Are you quite alright, Miss French?” he called. He worried that she might have cut herself. He frowned at the glass around her feet. Who knew a little hand mirror could be so destructive?

When she squeaked, “I’m sorry?” he asked again, but still no answer.

“I’ll get the broom,” he said, deciding that he could at least do something about the glass.

When he approached her, broom and dustpan in hand, she hadn’t moved at all, but her lips were pressed together tightly and her eyes were red.

He let the dustpan fall to the floor and she jumped, her eyes flying to his in a panic. What, did she think he was going to beat her with the broom?

Gold said nothing as he placed his cane carefully against the shelf and swept up the remains of what was once an ornate hand mirror.

He was just getting that last bits of the frame when finally she spoke.

“I’ll pay for it,” she said after apologizing.

“Nonsense,” he said immediately. Not wanting to bend down, he gestured to the dustpan. “But what you could do is grab that.” He paused, rethinking. It wouldn’t do to have Miss French cut herself on the glass, and Mr. Gold may be many things, but careless was not one of them.

Instead, he handed her the broom. A little pain in his ankle was worth it if it would save Miss French from so much as a paper-cut. After retrieving the dustpan and his cane, he tried leading her into the back, only to find her frozen to the spot, broom clutched in her hands. She looked rather confused.

Honestly, he didn’t necessarily need her to go with him, but he wanted her to. Maybe she’d see something back there and ask a question. That could lead to a few more questions, if he were lucky.

“Are you coming?” he asked her, thrilled at the prospect.

She shook her head, and his hope popped like a balloon in the atmosphere.

“If you're more comfortable waiting out here,” Gold said, starting to realize what it must look like, him leading her to his back room out of sight from passerby.

“No, sorry. I'll be right there.” she said, quickly, to his relief.

He couldn’t help the smile he gave her, thrilled when she gave him one back, and was that his imagination, or was that a blush that now stained her cheeks? The rosy red was really so much better than that dreadful white. He kept his eyes on her face when she walked through the curtain, the look of awe exactly what he had hoped to see.

He dumped the shards of glass into the trash (first things first, after all), then held out his hand for the broom.

“Oh,” Miss French stuttered, caught off guard. Too busy looking at all the clutter. “Yes, of course.”

Mr. Gold frowned at her extended arm.

“There is a hole in your sweater,” he said. The mirror must have ripped it when it fell. Well, that answered how it crashed to the floor, not that he had been overly concerned in the first place.

“A what?” she asked.

“A hole.”

He held out his hand and dared brush the soft, dark blue of her cardigan. He pulled slightly, so she could see what it was he was staring at. Thankfully, the creamy white skin exposed by the tear was unharmed.

“I can mend this for you, if you’d like,” he offered, unable to remove his hand from her person. “I have this color thread.”

“I couldn't impose more than I already have.” She looked distinctly uncomfortable, and it was that that made him finally drop his hand.

“Really, you shouldn't leave my shop in worse condition than you entered it,” Gold insisted.

“That's never been a concern of yours before,” she said.

Gold raised an eyebrow, thrilled at her cheekiness. So she had been paying attention those odd times customers would come in to try to negg on a deal or rework their rental agreements.

If there was one person in this sorry town that deserved any sort of leniency, it was one Belle French. Besides, if she blamed him for the hole, then she wouldn’t come back, and Gold wasn’t sure if he was ready to face a life when Miss French didn’t come to admire his books.

“I said _you_ shouldn't, my dear.”

Gold watched, fascinated, as the blush grew even rosier on her cheeks. He wondered how far down her chest the color went.

“I'm the one that destroyed your merchandise,” she said, but he could tell she was wavering.

“If it were really valuable I'd have put in the case,” Gold said. The mirror had been handcrafted in 1923 in Belgium and was probably worth around twelve hundred dollars, not that he would ever tell her that. “Really, Miss French, I insist.”

She seemed to finally acquiesce, much to Gold’s relief. Gold fought to keep heart from quickening as she peeled herself out of her sweater. It was practically Victorian, his excitement over the appearance of her skin, and he realized he had never seen her shoulders before. He wondered what they tasted like.

She handed over her sweater silently, her eyes skittering to his shelves. She was looking everywhere but him, which was probably for the best. God knew she’d only be more uncomfortable with the heat of his gaze.

He chided himself. Honestly, he needed to tone it down; Miss French wasn’t a piece of meat and he was acting barbaric. If he wanted her to be comfortable here, ogling her wasn’t going to do it.

Pulling out a seat, he bid her to sit while he went to the shelf with his sewing supplies. He went through the various blues he had, and yes, there it was. He knew he had a matching one.

Sitting beside her, he threaded the needle. Quietly, he started his darning. The damage wasn’t large at all, but maybe if he took his time—

“You're so good at that,” she blurted.

Gold’s hand paused. His head was bowed over his work, and he looked up at her curiously through a curtain of his hair. He wasn’t really doing anything special.

“It's just,” she tried, “your hands are so steady, and you're so focused and it's just...entrancing.”

Gold felt his lip twitch. “Thank you, Miss French. That's very kind.”

She must not know how to sew. He imagined it looked impressive to anyone who didn’t. In and out, in and out, he pulled the needle through the thread, going as slow as he possibly could, but she remained silent next to him.

He still found it a solid improvement from the time in the shop. They were closer, for one, and he could feel her eyes on him as he worked. It was a nice feeling, being seen.

“Here,” he said, finally handing back her sweater, thrilling at the contact when their fingers brushed. “What do you think?”

“Wow,” she said admiring the simple needlework. “This is incredible work. No. I mean it,” Belle said, when he tried to brush off her compliment. “Who taught you how to do this?”

And there is was, the question he had been waiting for. Gold took a steadying breath—he could do this. It was just talking and sharing and _finally_ —“My aunts were spinners by trade. Taught me all about fabrics.”

“No wonder you're so good with your hands,” Belle said.

He paused, his fingers on the leftover thread, and he turned to her, _maybe I can show you sometime_ on the tip of his tongue—

—and she was through the curtain, the maroon velvet swishing behind her. Miss French had bolted in all the time it took Gold to blink.

He stood, limping to the front and hoping she was still there, but no. He was met with an empty shop. He looked out the windows, and he could see her figure nearly across the street, where she was no doubt going back to her apartment above the library.

Gold, you old fool.

She hadn’t even meant it as an innuendo, for christ’s sake. After all, he was working with his hands. There was no reason for him to get so hot and bothered about the intrusive and no doubt unreciprocated images that sprang to mind at her words. He had hoped maybe some flirting would be harmless, but clearly the look in his eyes was too much for her.

Nothing for it, now. He let his shoulders drop, and he turned the sign to closed and locked the door—he absolutely was not in the mood for any other visitors today.

He sighed and made his way back to his worktable. It appeared she had dropped her sweater in her rush to leave. He folded it and set it carefully on the surface of the wood. He’d pick out one of his first editions to give to her in apology, assuming she ever came back. She was probably terrified he’d demand some sort of nefarious price from her in exchange for his mending.

A pretty fantasy, he could admit to himself, but definitely not anything he’d want in reality.

Yes, she seemed to hover most over the Austen. Perhaps he could wrap one of those up. _Sense and Sensibility_ , perhaps.

He frowned as he saw a wrinkle in her sweater. Gold lifted it and gently shook the fabric out, then refolded it.

Maybe he could finally venture into her library. He’d be in her territory, which would hopefully help put her mind at ease if she were indeed afraid of what he might want to do to her.

Gold sighed again, feeling tired and old.

He’d wait it out, like the coward he was. If nothing else, he still had her sweater.


End file.
